(A/N: Chapters 1-7 have been updated. I'd love to get more reviews and see if any of you prefer the new chapters!)
Chapter four: Morphine Dreams
He was a fallen idol to some, a happily forgotten menace to others. He was lonely. It was inevitable.
How he wished to return to the glorious days of spring, when all he had to do relieve himself of so much pain was wait for nightfall. He always had Christine. She listened and obeyed her angel. So many years he had poured into that strong healthy bond, nurturing it and watching it grow. He couldn't wait for that day when he would finally reveal himself to his angel. Looking back, he should have dreaded it.
It had been so perfect. She had seen his lavish home, even laid on the same bed he slumbered on every night. The sheets had still smelled of her beauty many hours of darkness after she had gone. It had been a hopeless cause, for he had made one fatal mistake. He had taken the position of father, nurturer and protector. What woman in her right mind would give up her body to her sire? None.
This was no longer the all-powerful all-knowing opera ghost from the Opera Populaire's glory days. No perfect wig covered his hair; in fact, it was dirty and matted with layers of grease and grime. It hung limply around his face, for he hadn't given a care to try and clean it. No stark white porcelain mask covered his deformity. He had no need to hide it any longer. So far under the opera he had moved, that if it were not for the slight glimmer of a few begotten candles, complete and total darkness would engulf his dreary home… If one could even call it that.
More like a prison.
Slowly and carefully he filled the needle, sure not to overdose himself again. That had been a night from hell --worse than all the hopeless daydreams and mirages of his lost angel tormenting him. Holding the syringe up to check the amount, he nodded wearily before inserting the plunger into the barrel.
Staring down to his arm with glazed eyes, he watched himself plunge the needle deep into his skin. So many times he had done this before… Black and blue bruises covered the entire surface, very little fresh blood welling from the new puncture. The syringe was his way to escape, drift into a dream and rid himself of problems. However, there was a horrible truth to problems. No matter how many times you fade into a morphine-induced stupor, the problems always returned.
Erik felt no pain. The first injection had been terribly painful. Both mentally and physically. He had to debate with himself; did he really need this? He did. Living down lower than low to escape the burning wreckage, watching as a new slut decided to run his opera. And he didn't have his Christine. She had left, arm in arm with Raoul. How could he have been so wrong?
At first there had been anger. Like a child denied of sweets he had rampaged. His hands and armshad crisscrossing scars from such actions, and he had paid dearly for what weak satisfaction the destruction gave him. It was nothing compared to the lovely euphoria gained by his morphine.
Erik's arm was numb, and had been for at least a month. Soon he would need to start the injections one of his legs if he ever hoped to regain use of the other appendage. Truly it was amazing he had kept this up for as long as he had. Somehow when he came out of the dizzying highs, he could momentarily think as he always had. Remarkable. Erik's mind had always been a bit off-kilter, but to be able to reason? Sometimes even he amazed himself. Sadly ,with the ability of true thought brought memories, and memories brought pain. That's what drove him back to the needle, he almost craved to watch it puncture his skin.
Sitting down on his disgusting cot, tears began to stream down his face. Not yet had the powerful drug caught hold, and now was the moments of ultimate sorrow that preceded the high. Erik's dirty face was covered in a thick layer of grime, interrupted only by the hot wet tears rolling down his face. How could she leave him? How? Back to the sorrow. Luckily he did not get violent as before… Glancing over to his stores of the drug, new louder sobs racked his body. He would soon have to go up and fetch more. How would he ever be able to accomplish that?
Laying his head down on the cot, Erik silently sobbed into the bedding. He was formulating his plan to go up to the surface world, but within moments he felt light and calm, and he closed his eyes to watch the splendor erupting within his skull. Such radiating calmness gripped his body; almost ripping him to pieces with it's beautiful reasoning. Relax. He would think about that sorrow later, so much later. Curled up in a ball on a grimy cot, Erik faded from reality. Miles under the opera house in nothing more than a dirty hole, Erik was happy. This was the life he had chosen now, and no one would ever be able to turn him away from the Morphine Dreams.
(A/N: Suprsingly, I know very little of the history of drugs. Don't kill me if this didn't exist in that particular time in france. I might have to cry if you do. Or Erik will... inject you with morphine! That's all he's really able to do of right now.)